


and the minutemen stood as we knew they would

by coldhope



Category: Planet P Project
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-23
Updated: 2013-06-23
Packaged: 2017-12-15 20:46:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/853880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coldhope/pseuds/coldhope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Artemis reflects on the events of <i>Pink World</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and the minutemen stood as we knew they would

_Because we need you._

_Because we love you._

_Because you can set us free._

At first the testing had been almost fun, a series of games you played with Colonel Smith, which was not his name: his name was Joseph P. Klein and he was only doing this because he was the only Jew in the group of attachés and therefore the most expendable. He'd explained it. _We'll keep you, we'll be watching you and we'll study you, and--Artie, oh, we need you, when your country calls..._

Whose country is it, and does it still matter, but you set rock on fire and you make devils appear because you have always been able to do this, your parents--you had some, once--exclaimed at finding the coiling black snakemonster you'd described to them hovering in the air over your bed--had done that thing people do when they can't believe what they see. 

You wish so hard you could do that thing. You see _everything_. You see the scientists in their secret labs feverishly working on new bombs, better bombs, bombs that will not only kill people but vaporize all the buildings. You wish so fucking hard that you could not see what you see. 

The difficult part is trying to explain it to other people--what the fuck is it that's expected of you? How are you, one kid, one small fluffy-haired kid who's shit at softball and is almost failing math, how are you supposed to do anything about it?

But it's beyond your control. Everything is beyond your control. When the scientists move you to a new facility the van in which you're transported has guards all around it and still people crawl onto the roof, desperate to touch the metal sheeting of the thing that contains you, desperate to be close, because you are incredible and yet real in a world of desperation and lack of faith. 

They transfer you to the new building and you see daylight, clear daylight, not filtered, for a brief few moments. Things go fuzzy, and you're glad of it. And then you are out under that bright sunlight again and oh, it's another demonstration, and you are so fucking tired of these demonstrations and long before the uniform in charge gives you an order you tell that rock outcrop three miles distant that it is entirely too dense for its current temperature and activity, and a distant crack finally reaches the watching masses long after the smoke cloud has risen.

It's so boring and you can feel whatever's in your mind crawling angrily, wanting out, wanting to do something, wanting to do everything. One of them comes to talk to you. "Artie," he says. "Artie, you've changed the world."

You just look at him.

"Do you want anything?" he asks. "We have to keep you in the f...in the..."

"Faraday cage," you sign.

"In the thing for security reasons but that doesn't mean you can't have a treat or something."

You look at him, and you can feel the rugose curves and valleys and rifts and arroyos of his brain, it tastes like bland meat-fat to your questing mindfingers, and you could so easily just make him declare himself a bulkhead, or pop something crucial and leave him a dribbling vegetable for the next forty years. You ghost along his synapses, and are gone. 

"I want a popsicle," you sign. You are so tired. So very, very tired. And it will be soon--you know that in your bones, or whoever's bones these are. You can feel the moment approaching, a beacon washed in on a tide. You know what to do when it comes close enough, and you are confident that you can do it: that you can raise the barrier, create a zone for your people, but you don't intend to opaque it near the surface when the black rains fall. No, your lucky ones get to watch, if they so choose. 

You are _so_ tired, and still thousands are gathering just to walk where you've walked, to breathe your air, to catch a glimpse of you, and once more you say: why.

Why you. Why you, of all people. Why you, when thousands of far more capable leaders exist and have existed. Why you, when there could be thousands more places you could be. Why were you chosen to bear this, to carry it, to be the one? Is it just because you're mute, and therefore more expressive with your other senses? Is it just because the cosmos likes a little joke?

_(and you wish that somebody would stand up and say  
he's a boy, a boy who can't talk)_

Your only real consolation is the sure and certain knowledge that you are not eternal, that one day you will be able to not be, to give up your responsibilities and fade out forever. 

You will find that this last point is in error, soon enough.

You will find the red door has swung open, and the things that move dimly in the mist beyond the threshold are calling your name: 

_Artemis. Artemis, come out and play._

_Come out and play._

(And you wish that somebody would stand up and say  
He's a boy  
A boy who can't talk)

_Artemis?_

_Come home._


End file.
